


The Lingering Taste of Love

by paeanrela



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ghosts, Horror, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paeanrela/pseuds/paeanrela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago a faithful citizen of England's died with a fierce love for his Nation in his heart.  Centuries later his ghost finds an opportunity to finally grasp what he deems to be rightly his, through possessing someone he realizes England cares for more than he would ever freely admit.  America has always been afraid of ghosts and with something watching him from the dark perhaps his fears are not unfounded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lingering Taste of Love

**Author's Note:**

> A repost and light edit of something written years ago for lj user fenrirofdakness.

It begins as a moment like any other.

The man has always been loyal to King and Country, with the justification of God's right worn on one sleeve and the royal standard of his King's will on the other. He has always been dedicated and always been dependable, and he has lived his life according to the precepts of one bred for the position he proudly fills. 

He lives well, he lives for his King, and he lives with the love for his Country in his heart. 

It is that love which he cherishes most, branded over his heart and nurtured through his dedication, furthered by his Nation's prosperity and growth. He had grown up in the service of his Country from the moment he was born; a citizen by right, a subject of his majesty, a willing servant of the closest regard in the service of his King. He pledged his life and his obedience to the Crown and as such learned the things that being so close to the higher echelons of government necessitated. 

He, unlike so many of his countrymen, who were alike him in stature, class and carriage, was among the few blessed to know his Nation by his appearance and good Christian name. 

He knew the greenness of his eyes and the furrow of his brow, the soothing cadence of his voice. He knew the quiet nature of his regard and the elusiveness of his touch, for his Nation was a reserved man, choosing to keep his hands gloved and to himself, reserved for only the most worthy. 

What he wouldn't have given for just one touch...

It seemed cruel that he was granted what he wanted so badly in the few remaining moments of his life. It was then that he finally received what had begun merely as a wish, grown into a simmering want, and eventually fleshed out into a pulsing need, hotter than the fever that burned through his body. 

But fever proved more deadly than desire and had killed many during his life.  In the end he was merely another victim to that heated clutching hand of death. 

But it was what happened before, just before that final breath, that would would change his death from all the rest.

Upon his deathbed, as he lay suffering and drained of spirit, his thoughts dwelled distant and delirious on the hills of his home, the quiet streams and the green green valleys. He wondered which part of him he was touching when he trespassed those old childhood paths, when he had lain in the fields and dug his fingers into the earth. 

It had been then when England, his England, had come to him; sat by his bedside and watched him wane. 

He had not had the ability to speak, did not know what words he would say had he been able, and none of that had mattered. He had felt the heated sting behind his eyes when England had reached forward and pressed his hand against the damp skin of his forehead, simple and sweet. His hands were rougher than he had imagined them, naked of their gloved armor. His eyes closed, he felt the tears slip from the corners and slide down his flushed skin, and he felt death rise up and wrap cold fingers around his neck and take him away, that cherished touch slipping away as easily as his life did. 

When he died his belief in God rotted away the same way his corpse did beneath the dark earth. 

When he died his loyalty to his King slipped away as easily as his last breath had passed his lips.

When he died the last thought he ever had as a mortal man in his mortal world was of that which was not like him, that which had green green eyes and a rare smile, that which lived before him, beyond him, out of reach. 

And so, when he died, he clung to that final thought, that desire--his final will--and he let it possess him. 

Green green eyes and a rare smile. A rarer touch and the reward made sweeter for the waiting. He dug his fingers in deep and held fast.

And unknown to him his England counted the seconds, watching the still chest before him fail to rise again and breathed a sigh, reaching forward to close the eyes that had been watching him for too long. The man before him had been dutiful, good as any man could be, and he deserved this final gesture given his loyalty to his beloved King.  But there had been something that had unsettled him, some darkness. Something about him that had clung to the edge of his awareness like dust motes at the corner of his vision, cobwebs at his fingertips. 

If he had said he felt no relief in the man's passing he would have been lying. 

If he had said he didn't feel somehow freer from the loss of those eyes, watching him wherever he went, his lie would only grow. 

But what he did not consider what that obsession -- desire -- is a funny thing. 

A funny, lingering sort of thing. 

 

 

Things change when you're dead. Most things cease to matter and memory becomes as unimportant as any other early morning.  There is no right and wrong, nothing to distinguish the joyful from the tragic, and slowly but surely, bit by bit, what makes one human fades away. 

Like a will-o-the-wisp or a snuffed flame, the ghostly echo of smoke left fading. 

Most move on because of this. There is nothing to care for and therefore nothing to keep them around.  

The ones that do, the ones who have that lingering memory, that desire... 

It is them one must worry about. 

Because it is desire that anchors. It drives, directs, pushes forward and all one needs is a little drop left unsatisfied for it to grow and bloom into something powerful, beautiful-- 

And terrible. 

England had changed very little in the years that had passed since they had buried that mortal man. His frown was the same, as was the color of his eyes, and he licked his lips just the same way as he had when there had been no such thing as computers, or fountain pens, or central heating.

And for the most part he touched others just as often as he had in the past, as infrequently as possible, with as much distaste evident in his expression as was politely appropriate. 

Save for one other, someone who was very much like him and also very much not. Someone with blue eyes and a bright smile and a soul that glowed and made England glow too, just for being near him. 

Things change when one is dead and if one can manage to hold on long enough the way they feel changes too. Emotions become bolder, stronger, chaotic; desire edges into obsession, jealousy submerges itself into a vicious notion of possession. 

Dead for centuries, clinging tightly and watching from the corner, the doorway, the dark, the ghost decided he didn't like this other Nation, this thing that glowed too bright and laughed too loud and made England smile too honestly when he was sure the other wasn't looking. 

And something had to change in the way England touched America, inconsequential little brushes of fingertips while passing papers and meaningless bumps of hips and shoulders when moving in crowded halls. 

All you need sometimes is a little fear.

Fear can grow, eat away at bravery and courage, chip away strength and willpower until all that remains in the quivering mess is a dark, desperate shell. 

All you need is a little fear. 

Fear can topple Nations. Fear can give ghosts a good grip. 

And it was no secret that he, with his body long gone and his spirit clinging like a parasite to this earth, was exactly what America feared most. 

Had be remembered how the thought would have made him smile.

 

 

It was a normal enough evening.  England's house was quiet, most rooms left in the dark from disuse and the Nation in question could be found in his living room, a teacup in one hand, a book in the other. 

The season was late Spring; it had just rained and the night outside his old house was sparkling wet. The window, left cracked, allowed the faint scent of roses to waft in, fresh blooms glimmering bejeweled with clear beads of raindrops. 

Inside it was comfortably warm. England turned a page, sipped his tea, allowed himself to enjoy the peace and quiet, which, if he were any sort of expert--

"Hey England! Your door was stuck so I had to give it a little push, think I broke it."

\--wasn't bound to last long. 

England's book snapped shut with a deft twist of his wrist and he looked up at America.  America who had just barged into his home with very little regard to courtesy or consideration or common sense.  America, who was stepping into the room with a grin on his face and his hands in his pockets. 

His brows dipped in a scowl. 

"Have you ever heard of knocking or are these common practices of courtesy simply a societal norm that you find yourself exempt from?" he asked, honestly curious. He set his cup onto its delicate flower printed saucer and stood, crossing the space to the hall and peering down the dark corridor to the front door.

"I hope you know you're fixing that!" he snapped, once he was observed that the other Nation had not left it simply laying propped up against the wall. At least America had attempted to put it back into place over the doorway and how on earth had he not heard that?!

He turned to glare at America, who only grinned and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "I guess I just don't know my own strength," he offered and laughed when England's expression darkened further as he came back into the room, resettling himself into his chair, intent on ignoring America and acting as if he wasn't glad for his company.

America, however, wasn't having anything of the sort.

"Come on! Don't be boring," he said, flopping down across England's couch and honestly, he was amazed it didn't break under such rough treatment. 

"You said this wouldn't be as boring a visit as it was last time, England," America continued, his tone growing accusatory. "You said your house was full of things to do, remember that?  _You_ said that it was entertaining.  You said I wouldn't be bored out of my skull next time I came here, ugh!" 

England huffed on a breath, looking up at America and feeling the corners of his mouth pinch, whether from ire or mild amusement, he would not consider. 

"America, I don't recall making any promises to play tour guide, particularly not to a place you have visited many times before-"  He turned a page.   "-and certainly not following a series of exhausting meetings that have finally ended, against all indications promising otherwise, and now fully warrant some respite." 

He read the first line at the top of his page once and then again, realizing he hadn't actually processed it.

"Furthermore, did you ever consider that those things were said to get you off my back? I recall you were being fairly obnoxious during that particular visit and frightfully rude too," England continued, looking up and abandoning the book.  There was no way he would be able to focus on it now and besides, he was too busy frowning as he recalled what the other had carelessly said during that last visit, some overgeneralized insult regarding the peaceful charm of his countryside. 

"That doesn't mean you should have just left today with barely a goodbye, especially when they're being held in one of your backwater little towns for the historical value.  You totally ditched me so you could run away to your old dusty house and leave me to a stupid hotel room in your boring country! Now who's rude?" 

England rolled his eyes. "You could easily have caught a flight back tonight," he retorted.

America shoulders slumped and he seemed to deflate slightly.   "I know that, but I haven't been here in awhile. I thought it would be nice to stay a little longer but I forgot how creepy your place is at night," he said, all in a rush. More quietly he added, "And I didn't want to be alone." 

England's expression softened immediately, aided by the fact that the other was currently looking away from him, to some trinket on his hearth, and the hint of a smile that touched his lips was motivated by the same thing that made him push himself up again and cross the room, to sit delicately beside America. 

"You were scared, hm?" he said, the amusement evident in his tone and America brought his head up to scowl at him, though England knew just as well as America did that the teasing made the situation easier. 

Better, for the both of them. 

"I wasn't scared," America denied and it was a comfortable sort of script they were falling into; England smiling faintly, America trying to maintain his frown, their thighs brushing whenever the other shifted. 

"Really now..." England said lightly, looking away innocently and then cocking his head, frowning thoughtfully. 

"Do you hear that?"

America scowled, his shoulders hunching over. "That's not funny, England, and you know it!" 

"No, no, I am being completely serious!" England said, his tone making it clear that he very seriously was not and he caught sight of America's smile, even as he tried to hide it by ducking his head. 

"Ohh, my, there it is again! What a strange sort of sound too, a sort of moaning!" England continued.

"Dirty old man," America muttered and England whacked him across the arm. "Not that sort, you wretch! It's far more agonized and oh my, I do believe it's coming closer! Can't you hear it?" 

And just when England saw the slightest indication that America was listening for something more than just the sound of his voice he attacked, dropping his hand behind America and letting his fingers walk up along the other Nation's spine, a soft oooooooaaah leaving his lips, and delighted when America visibly jumped. 

"Not funny!" America yelped, though the sound of England's laughter made the younger Nation smile soon enough, edged as it was with sheepish chagrin, and he muttered his annoyance and shifted away from England's vicinity in a way that was tell-tale of how uninterested he was in actually distancing himself.

England shook his head wryly, standing up and motioning America to follow, who did with little fight. 

He must have been more tired than he'd been letting on.

"Come on then, I can show you to the guest room. You're lucky I keep such things in good order, otherwise you'd be quite put ou--"

"England!"

"Oh come now, enough of that, just relax.  There's nothing to be afraid of."

"No, I saw something.  In the hallway!"

England shook his head, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on America's shoulder. "There's nothing there, my dear, come now, look at me," he said, trying to draw America's wide gaze from the darkened archway that led to the front corridor and back to him. 

And America almost did, almost managed to drag his gaze away to look at England, almost relaxed.  England could feel the slow slackening of his muscles under his hand, the slow exhale that brought the whole body down, but the room was suddenly just a little cooler and America's body tensed again like a bow string, his attention narrowing in upon that dark space. 

"There's something there, England, I'm not making it up!" he said, nearly shouting, and England's brow furrowed as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. 

Because America actually sounded afraid. Because America was acting as if he actually was seeing something...

He turned his head slowly, like he was moving through water and he could hear America's breathing, too loud in the stillness of the room, felt his heart beat pounding in his ears, and looked to the dark arch.

Nothing.

There was nothing there.

He blinked, keeping his eyes focused, waiting a beat for anything to actually come, his lips twitching when nothing did. Turning back to America he opening his mouth to speak.

"As I said, there's nothing the--" England felt the end of the word catch in his throat and stared up at America's face, white as a sheet and staring past him. 

America's face, seeing something that he wasn't, breath cut off, the shine of fear in his eyes that would soon slip down his cheek, his mouth open and sucking in short breathy gasps of air as he stumbled back, away from him, away from the black of the hall.

"America," England said. "America! Nothing is there, my darling, look at me, America!" But the larger Nation wasn't listening, wasn't even hearing him, only had eyes for something England couldn't see and when he tripped and fell backward, arms windmilling for a moment and knocking the lamp over in his descent, it was hardly surprising that he managed to crack his head on the edge of the side table, knocking himself unconscious and plunging the room into complete darkness in one fateful fall.

Leaving England alone in the silence and the dark and the memory of the fear in America's eyes. 

All you need is a little fear.

What starts small can grow.

 

 

Time passed, but not very much.  

It's too quiet.

The thought occurred to England only briefly before the entirety of his attention was devoted to America again, the still, unmoving, unconscious America.  The stillness was unnatural in the young Nation and it alarmed him, sent his pulse racing, and it was normal--normal--this concern.  

America, though he shall never say it to boy’s face, was his friend.

Nothing more.  Nothing less.

And now he is laying too still on his living room floor, his eyes closed, his heartbeat too slow, especially against his own, and no matter how much he shakes his shoulder, says his name, America won't wake up! 

He wondered if he should call somebody, France perhaps, or that nice nation who lived North of America, but that would mean leaving him on the floor to grope blindly for the telephone and no, no he would take care of this, he could fix this!

If only the boy would wake up, everything would be fine and he didn't think as his hand smoothed other America's brow, as his name was again repeated in some vain hope that the other would hear him and open his eyes and tell him everything is alright, jokes on you England.

And then with the startling swiftness of waking from a nightmare America's eyes did open, blinking rapidly and unaware of England jerking his hand back in surprise.

"My god, are you alright?" he demanded, when he was sure his voice would sound steady, reaching forward again to rest his hand on America's shoulder.  "Don't move too quickly, I wouldn't want you to swoon."

No pithy look met the anxious teasing and instead America turned his head, his gaze falling on England's hand, staring.

Slowly, awkwardly, England withdrew.  "Ah...  I- I'm sorry, America, come now, we should get you up to bed. It will be much better than lying on the floor," he said, his voice seeming faint as he pushed himself up to stand and then offer his hand to the other Nation.

America stared at it, slowly tracing his gaze upwards along the length of England's arm, to his shoulder, and throat, the curve of his jaw, the expression of worried concern showing dimly in the moonlit room.

Just before England withdrew his hand America grasped it, pulling himself upwards and tilting forward slightly, off-balance, before catching himself.

England stared at America, frowning.  "America..." he said, his voice careful and curious, unsettled.

"Are you alright?"

America smiled, a wide grin full of teeth, and despite himself England took a step back.

"England," he said and there was something off, something in the shape of his vowel, a strange catch in his throat.  

England shivered and moved further away.  

“Perhaps you should sit down, regain your bearings,” he suggested gently, feeling wary and not understanding why.   

America just shook his head, the elation of his expression growing and when he spoke England felt a trickle of fear snake down his spine because his voice; he spoke in the tones of England’s own accent, measured and clipped, a perfect mimicry of his own speech pattern. 

“I don’t need to rest, I’ve been doing enough of that!” he said, stepping closer, and to compensate their distance England took another step back.

“Stop!  Right where you are, don’t come one bit closer!” he snapped sharply, his body tense. 

“America, what’s wrong with you?"  He tried to laugh but it came out strangled and nervous.  

"Perhaps my joke was in bad taste but this is going a bit too far.”

America breathed in, a whooshing sound that told of the thrill to be alive and America--his America--let his expression calm, even out into something foreign.  

Someone else beneath the skin.  

"Can you see me now, my dearest England?"

England couldn't speak, taking slow steps backwards.  Something was wrong here, this was not a joke, and England felt a trickle of fear slip down his spine.  

"He's so strong...  Is this what it feels like to be like you?" America-- _not America_ \--continued.  "It's so strange,  I can feel so much."  The spirit in America's body closed his eyes, breathing in and out, a shaking smile slipping back and forth from his lips, as if unsure.  "It's almost too much," he whispered.  "After so long of feeling nothing--"

He opened his eyes, America's blue skies, made black in the darkness of the room.  "Do you know how long I have waited, my England?  How long I have watched you, stood beside, just behind you.  Longing to touch you?"  

England licked his dry lips.  "I-I don't know who you are," he said, his voice cracking, trying to smother the fear in his heart.  This had never happened, one of their kind had never ever fallen victim to possession.  It wasn't possible, it couldn't be.

The ghost smiled in a way that made America's face look wrong; predatory and somehow angry.  "That's alright," he said.  "It's alright.  It doesn't matter who I was, I was weak anyway. Just another one of your mortals, one of your faithful servants, but look England, look!  I've surpassed that, my England, and now I can collect upon what you owe me, for my service to you, for all my patience."

England scoffed but the sound was weak.  "Oh?  And what could I possibly owe you!" he said, anger and concern for America making his voice sharp, lined with anger.  His feet were still taking him backwards, slow and careful, but the thing inside America was moving now too, suddenly far too fast, and England stumbled back, startled, as America's body was suddenly right before him, his large hands reaching out to wrap around England's upper arms and pushing him harshly against the wall England had not realized he was so close to.  

" _You!_ " it roared furiously, a sudden striking frisson of anger coloring its voice.  "I deserve you!  For how long I've waited, for all I did for you when I was living and only desired your approval, your touch, _for all that, I deserve you!_ " 

America's face was too close, breath hot on England's cheek, and he felt disgust curl in his gut.  How dare this thing!  Presumptuous and low creature, a wretched and delusional soul, dead and meant to be long gone, daring to claim ownership over him.

And using America's face to do it, America's voice, warped as it was. America's hands on him and _ohgod_ , if the situation were different--

"You cannot claim a Nation!" England said, voice harsh, body strung tight.  "We are not the same as you, we are not equals!"  He shifted beneath the creature's grasp, testing his limits.    

"You are beneath me, you dead thing," he said, voice soft in the silence.  "This is something that can never, and should not, be."

He was pulled back and slammed back against the wall with a force that pushed the breath from him, indented the wall behind his back and cracked the plaster.  His head snapped back to smack against the wall and for a beat he could see stars, thought of America, and suddenly those hands were in his hair, cradling his head, stroking intimately along the knob of bone behind his left ear.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he's strong, I told you already," the creature murmured, touching England's face as he blinked away the spots, kept himself still as apologetic hands reverently touched his brows, stroked the skin at his temple, smoothed the corners of his mouth, over the soft flesh of his lip.  "I don't want to hurt you, I lived for you," it continued, bringing America's body closer, fitting his front gently against England's, touches growing tender, careful, though the greediness did not abate, touching England as if he might lose him at any second, as if he'd been waiting a lifetime and more to touch him like this.

"I don't want you to say things like that, my dear England.  Beautiful, lovely.  This is right, you'll see.  I can feel him here, your _America_."  The words whispered against his neck, warm and damp, the heat of his breath bursting against his skin.    

"All he does is hurt you, my precious England.  He doesn't deserve you, I can make you happy, I can give you this body, let you touch and explore it to your hearts content."

America's mouth against England's ear, breath hot and damp and he didn't move when he felt the hot slick of America's tongue sliding along the shell.

"And in return you can give me yours."

The vase that England had been groping for in the past few minutes came crashing down on America's head, causing the spirit inside America to jerk in surprise.  England took the small opening as a chance to push himself off the wall and dart past the larger body, dodging past the dark shapes of furniture in the dark.  He heard the creature cry out angrily and throw himself after him, stumbling in the dark with his new body.  The thought made England sick but he did not pause to turn around, intent on putting at much distance between them as he could.  He could not help himself were he to end up trapped in the spirit's grip, and nor could he help America.  

England stumbled down the hall, tripping on the edge of the rug and clumsily slamming himself into the wall before he was dashing down the length of it, trying to keep quite and move quickly at the same time.  He moved through the dining room and into the kitchen, keeping the light off and stilling for a moment to listen.

Silence.  

It scared him more than being trapped against the wall had, the tension coiling in his gut as he stepped back carefully, towards the back door that would lead out into his garden.  In the corner a shadow flinched and England tensed for a moment, saw nothing, and wasted no more time before fumbling with the knob, stumbling backwards down the two brick steps that brought him out into the open night sky, the moon hidden behind a cloud.  What filtered light there was cast a grayness over the wet plants of his garden, fat drops of water from the earlier rain glinting in the shadowed darkness.  

England raced through his garden quickly, plucking various things as he went by; the delicate petals of the elder flower, two ripe berries from the hawthorn bush, peppermint and rosemary.  He held the plants in his hands delicately, glancing back at the dark house, still and too quiet, before he fell beneath the dark shadows of a wych elm's branches, the knees of his slacks growing wet as he kneeled to scoop a shallow hole into the soft earth, placing the herbs within and cupping his hands over them, crouching down to whisper words in a language long dead. 

A sudden breeze swept through the tree, moving the branches about and allowing moonlight, appearing from behind the cover of clouds, to filter down over his bent form.  He glanced up at the light, his murmuring continuing for a few moments longer until--

"Witch!"

England jumped, hands clenching reflexively around the small collection of herbs within their shallow grave, and pushed himself away from the source of the voice. 

America's body was standing at the edge of the tree's protective canopy, watching him with dark eyes, expression twisted into something close to horrified interest.

England pushed himself up and tried to run, managing four strides before he was knocked heavily down into the damp earth, breath leaving him in a painful whoosh.  He felt hands on him, groping to turn him around and without thinking he kicked out, twisted his body, and in the confusion shoved the herbs into his mouth, chewing them as quickly as he could.

When he was flipped over his jaw abruptly stilled, the contents within resting soft and wet in the pocket of his cheek.

America's body straddled his hips, trapping him.  With the chill of the wet earth soaking his back, the heat of America's body pressing him down further into it, the spirit laughed, low and thrilled.  "My England, a witch," he said, hands around England's wrists, his body pressed against his.  

"Did anyone know?  Did you fool us all?"  It's expression grew soft, curiously affectionate as it moved one hand to take both England's wrists and trap them over his head, moving the other down to brush a lock of hair from his green eyes.  

"Would we have burned you along with the rest of the heretics, had we known?  Would I have watched your skin crack and blacken, hear you scream until the fire crept in there too and made you silent?"  

A kiss, warm against England's neck, moving down to his throat to the pulse that hammered frantically beneath the skin.  

"I would have watched you come back to me," the ghost whispered,   "You cannot die like mortals do, can you, England?  I would have been able to watch you heal, surely your skin would stitch itself back together.  I would have watched as you were reborn."  A harsh breath exhaled, shaking with anticipation.  

"Perhaps we can do that later.  I will kill you, my lovely, close those eyes and watch as you are born again mine.  We have all the time in the world," the dead thing said, and kissed England's mouth.

England wrenched his hands free, gripping America's head to him, and kissed back.  His tongue slid past America's lips and teeth, forced the concoction into the others mouth, and oh, he tasted the way he always imagined America would, bright and clean, the taint of the spirit within not yet reaching the warm softness of his mouth.  

For a moment the response was eager, hungrily elated, until the flavor of the crushed herbs spread over America's tongue.  Startled, the spirit tried to close its mouth and recoil but England forced his tongue inside, held him close, and kissed America with a desperation lit with the truth that this alone was his best, and perhaps only, chance. 

The creature was not used to a human body, was not yet accustomed to the full needs of it and the reflexes following the necessity for breath.  He swallowed and only then did England break the kiss, watching wildly as the spirit threw himself back, breathing heavily, his expression ripped open in grief and terror.  

England resisted the urge to look away, pushing himself up to sit upright, hands digging into the dirt.  

The screaming began a few moments later, the magic taking hold and working through the belly of America's body, attacking the aura of the intruder within.  

England watched, casting silent prayers for the spell to work, quiet as he watched the dead man within struggle against the permanence of death.  He could hear America's true voice intermingled with that of the ghost's, rising pained and desperate beneath the layer of the other.  Two spirits, one voice.  

England felt the hot sting of tears prick the back of his eyes and he swallowed, blinking them back and keeping his attention rapt upon the wracked form.

Very abruptly it all stopped.  Cut off halfway, like a vibrating note stilled with a swift touch.  England remained still, staring at the silent figure, the light casting his form in silhouette.

And then very quiet and very small, America's voice.  

"...England?"     

It did not matter how quickly England closed the distance, nor that he was a mess by now, either, sopping wet and covered in dirt.  All that mattered was that America was very securely wrapped in England's arms, held tight and closer than either could ever remember being.  He murmured things against America's ear, things that they would have to talk about later, could not dare forget, and slowly, tentatively, America lifted his arms to return to embrace, until he was clutching him desperately, terrified England may slip away, or that England might allow America to be buried again, beneath a will that was not his own.

For what seemed like a very long time neither move from that spot in the garden.

High above the moon cast them in a pearled glow.  

With little care for their struggles, their mortal fears and their mortal love, the night moved on.


End file.
